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Princess Mia stood at rigid attention. Polished garnet armour hugged her slim frame; gem-lined pauldrons caught last light in blood-red sparks. To either side, healers in white bark robes waited with stretchers, and heralds clutched long silver horns that had greeted countless heroes.
Mia’s breath hitched each time dust silhouettes emerged from the crowds. She ticked off units by memory: First Dawn-Blade Cohort, intact but limping; Supply Auxiliaries, Vanguard Spear flaunting fresh enemy standards... yet no crooked, spear-lean figure that matched Kai.
A ragged line of workers trudged past, their eyes sunken, harness ropes carving bloody tracks across shoulders. Mia’s heart lurched. "He would never march ahead; he’d stay rear-guard, watching for stragglers." She scanned the tail of the convoy, still nothing.
The final company creaked into view: a shattered sledge with slate "Delta-19" scorched on its side. Two familiar ants walked at its head. Fenn, tunic torn and one antenna splinted; Brask, shield still blackened by acid burns. Both dropped to one knee before Mia, their body quivering in sadness.
"Highness..." Fenn rasped. "Scout-Leader Kai was... seized. A five-star Blood-Scythe Mantira struck from the rear flank. General Irontide prioritised the corpse train... We... couldn’t do anything. Kai might be... "
Words disintegrated.
Brask lifted dull eyes. "We never found his body, Your Grace. He... he saved wagon-eight. If he hadn’t drawn the beam..." the shield-bearer’s plate rattled as he fought tears "more of us would lie in the sand."
The plaza seemed to tilt. Mia’s vision blurred with pin-prick stars, but she sank emotion under a princess’s mask. She placed a gauntleted hand upon Fenn’s bowed head, gesture of absolution. "You served with honour. Report to triage, both of you. Dawn-Blade bears no shame."
The pair shuffled off, shoulders shaking. Only when they disappeared behind healer screens did Mia’s breath rush from lungs, leaving tremor in knees. Trumpets sounded the formal conclusion; civilians cheered, deaf to the undercurrent of grief.
"Where is he?"
Inside the largest canvas ward, rows of cots overflowed with wounded. Jun the rune-healer looked up from salving a burn. Her eyes widened. "Highness."
"I need every scrap of witness," Mia said, voice raw. "Form circle, now."
Within minutes the core survivors, Fenn, Brask, Jun, Lieutenant Alsha, and three pikers sat around her. The smell of blood and chamomile poultice mingled heavily.
Mia’s gaze sliced from face to face. "Details... the moment Kai disappeared."
Fenn swallowed. "Mantira emerged after Leopard King’s beam. Scout-Leader tried to trigger some artefact glowing sigil on his chest but the creature blindsided him. Tail cinched his waist, yanked him into a tunnel. He was badly injured."
Brask’s fists clenched sheet. "I charged, but Leopard’s beam knocked us flying. By the time we rose, the tunnel mouth collapsed. We were overrun by bone-jackals... We couldn’t follow."
Jun added, tears streaking dust on cheeks, "General Irontide ordered a defensive circle. Disobeying would have doomed the corpse and the legion."
"So you abandoned him." Mia says. The words escaped harsher than intended. Guilt flashed in Jun’s eyes; Brask flinched.
A heartbeat later Mia’s shoulders slumped. "Forgive me. I know you fought." She pinched the bridge of nose, steadying her breath. "No rescue patrol?"
Alsha shook head. "Mantira tunneled off-course eastward. Night-Leopard pack regrouped. No scouts to spare."
Mia absorbed, jaw grinding until the joint creaked. Hot moisture burned behind the lids; she blinked up at the tent ridgepole.
Brask spoke softly. "Princess, I swear by my by name if a path had opened, we’d have gone. You would have gone for any of us."
She met his earnest gaze. Realisation stabbed: they were right. Commanders weigh one life against legions. "But why does my heart revolt?" She nodded stiffly, placing a trembling hand on his arm. "Rest, Sergeant. All of you."
She pivoted out, armour plates clicking like brittle glass.
Torch-lit corridors shimmered gold; palace musicians still played victory hymns beyond stained-glass arches. Mia strode, head down, until the echo of jewelled sandals clicked from the cross-hallway.
Princess Thea glided into view, flawless as a festival idol. Her scale-dress shimmered sapphire and topaz; a necklace of fresh scarab fangs adorned the curve of throat.
"Little sister, why the storm cloud?" she purred. "I expected you to bask in applause, not skulk among bandage tents."
Mia marched past. Thea sidestepped, blocking path, mock-concern deepening. "Still searching for that toy boy scout? Rumours say he’s lifeless body decorating a Mantira’s den."
Mia’s hand twitched toward the sword but fell. "Step aside."
A wicked smile. "You cling so hard to fragile things.... toy boys, honour... When will you learn? Strength, Mia. Only strength endures."
Mia’s composure cracked; tears welled, but she refused to be a spectacle. She brushed Thea’s shoulder, voice icy. "Pray my fragile things never break the chains you worship, sister. You won’t survive the shards."
Thea’s laughter, brittle crystal, followed her retreat.
Mia reached her private chambers, a circular room draped in moon-silk and barred the door with shaking hands. Armour hit floor piece by piece, thinking like gravestones: greaves, breastplate, gauntlets... When she pulled free the gorget the release loosed stored grief.
She crawled to a low silk futon, fingers clutching embroidered edges. Words burst: "Kai... you promised... we would share victory together. you can’t... leave me like that."
Sob Sob Sob!
Sob hitched, tore free. Shoulders shook uncontrollably; tears splattered on the pillow. She pressed face into fabric to muffle sound but anguish seeped past, ragged like torn wings.
For the first time since girlhood she wept without reservation, crown of braids unraveling across cheeks. Ghost images tormented: Kai turning in torch-light, grin sly; Kai hauling her from collapsing crater; Kai calling her princess, both tease and vow.
"Where are you?" the voice cracked. "Return... invoice... lecture at me for foolish charge, anything... just—"
Grief spent itself slow as desert night. At last exhaustion folded her into fitful sleep; tears dried salt on cheeks. Even in dreams she reached for a hand that never came.